


Stronger Than the One

by sunspeared



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull's Chargers, F/F, Prompt Fic, Vallaslin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared/pseuds/sunspeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dalish and Skinner have little reason to talk to each other, and even less reason to like one another. Somewhere in between, there's an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger Than the One

**Author's Note:**

> _Vir Adahlen, the Way of the Forest: together we are stronger than the one._
> 
>  
> 
> A little—god, I hate the word "vignette"—from a hypothetical beginning of their relationship which does not even exist in canon because they each get like two lines apiece in the entire game, but which exists in all our hearts, nonetheless.

"That one's never going to be any good in a battle," Krem said, nodding at Skinner, as he and Dalish choked down Rocky's inedible cooking. "Shit bodyguard, too. Hates humans too much. Chief's got other plans for her."

Dalish took a careful bite. "We're branching out into arson? Bar fights? Minor concussions?"

"'Retrieval.'" Krem looked like he'd gotten a mouth full of wet cat shit, which might have been a principled disagreement with Iron Bull, and might have been the stew. It wasn't for her to know. She was only here to set things on fire, and get paid. "She's perfect for it. Elves, you know."

"I know," Dalish said. She and Skinner weren't the only elves in the Chargers—they weren't even the only female elves. _Humans are always going to look at me and see a threat, but they look at you guys and think you can't possibly be dangerous,_ Bull had said to her, when Dalish signed on, a year and a half ago. _That's why you're so valuable._

The other three, whose names were long forgotten in favor of Bull's nicknames for them, had all come out of different alienages, and were all distantly related in some way. You could see it in the shapes of their eyes, their good natures, their tolerance for alcohol, and their willingness to drop absolutely everything for a good fistfight, which Highever, the youngest of them, was getting right now, courtesy of Skinner. 

Across the camp, Skinner went down on her back in the dirt, then tripped Highever on her way back up. Dalish tore her eyes away from the fight and said, "Retrieval—is that your shemlen word for ‘stealing'? I'm only a simple forest girl, ser."

Krem, who was a dear, generous soul, as shems went, fed half a bowlful of stew to the fire. "It's stealing, like you're an archer."

"But I _am_ an archer," she said. "Look." She pointed at her bow, which really was a bow. Worked with enough lyrium to keep a templar high for a year, but still a real, genuine bow, never mind the crystals, which only glowed when she had to cast an enormous spell. Sometimes, she shot arrows from it, and sometimes, she even hit things. 

"Sure," Krem said, then pushed himself to his feet. "I've gotta go break that up, watch my food for me—actually, you know what, don't."

Dalish watched as he waded into the fray and halfheartedly separated them. Highever went back to the fire she shared with Wycome and Kirkwall; Skinner, wiping a bit of blood from the corner of her mouth, cast about for somewhere to sit. She caught Dalish's eye, and—no. Absolutely not. Dalish had called her a flat-ear once, after Skinner had jeopardized a job, had gotten a chair to the head for it a day and a half later, and avoided her ever since.

It wasn't as hard as it might have been. Among the People, you learned to dodge people in a clan of twenty. Sixty-two was, as Krem would say, amateur hour.

Skinner headed straight for her. She sat down, and helped herself to Krem's leftover stew. If there was one good thing about her, aside her way with a knife, it was that she could, and would, eat absolutely anything set they in front of her. "I won," she said, "I think."

"I wouldn't know," Dalish said.

"You watched the whole thing," said Skinner, her accent thickened further by the mouthful of food she was speaking around. "I saw you. Yes?" With a shrug, Dalish stared into the fire. They had nothing to say to one another. "I was wondering," Skinner went on, because apparently she did have something to say, "about your markings."

She made a vague gesture with at Dalish's face with the hand that wasn't holding a spoon. The vallaslin conversation—Dalish had it at least once with every city elf she met. This would be the ninth time she'd had it within the Chargers alone. 

"They're made by cutting into the skin and rubbing ink in," she said. "It's called blood writing for a reason. Flinch or cry out, and it's over. After a certain point, you've been fasting so long that you hardly feel the knife."

And by the end, you were floating, ecstatic with devotion to your chosen Creator, in so such searing pain that it almost became enjoyable. Elves from alienages—they never wanted to hear of the rituals, only the results. Never wanted to hear about a Second, who knew there was only the faintest chance of ever becoming Keeper for her own clan, tracing the designs into her own flesh for practice. Depth of cut, control of placement, for the day she'd be called upon to head a clan that had had no First. 

"Dirthamen," Skinner said, nodding firmly.

"That's none of your concern," Dalish snapped. _Terrible_ fucking manners, to comment on what Creator someone had devoted herself to. She stood, to find Krem, when it occurred to her—"How did you know?"

"The Bull said." Skinner drank the dregs of the broth, right down to the gritty bits at the bottom. "Falon'din or Dirthamen. Death or secrets. Are you going to finish that, before you go?"

Iron Bull was a scholar hiding out in the body of a small mountain. Had he been aught else, Dalish would never have come to work for him, when she could have (and had) been making better coin as a free agent. Apostates-for-hire were always in great demand, and in great danger. She sat back down, handed Skinner her stew. "And you think I'm more interested in secrets?"

"You don't like to kill," Skinner said. "You like to solve problems—yes? Sometimes, you have to kill to do that." She had a bizarre grin on her face, and, oh, sweet Mythal, she thought she was flirting. That this was flirting. "Say something to your Dirthamen tonight, for me? I need to go quietly tomorrow."

Dalish found herself—not repulsed by it. Skinner was violent, surly, and nearly impossible to work with—par for the course, with mercenaries—but it was always flattering, when someone put so much thought into pulling you apart. Even if it came from nowhere. Even if they had no reason to speak, let alone like one another. 

"Good hunting," Dalish said. Skinner would need Andruil's blessing, not Dirthamen's, for whatever it was the Chief had her stealing: "Fly straight, and do not waver."


End file.
